


i won't shoot first

by allyasavestheday



Series: les mis tumblr prompts [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Humor, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, unnecessary star wars jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 18:11:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14774631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyasavestheday/pseuds/allyasavestheday
Summary: Courfeyrac burns always bright in his consciousness, a star — no, a sun — Combeferre cannot turn away from.Courfeyrac is staring at him. Courfeyrac is looking at his lips. Courfeyrac is smiling at him, and there’s a fire in his eyes daring Combeferre to do something.





	i won't shoot first

**Author's Note:**

> HEREISMYONLINEWORK requested: hey! um, so could you do courf #1 please, thank you <3
> 
> #1 i have you shoved against the wall but now I can’t stop looking at your mouth
> 
> originally posted to [tumblr](http://g-taire.tumblr.com/post/148573670298/hey-um-so-could-you-do-courf-1-please-thank)
> 
> title comes from a terrible star wars related pick-up line

“Ferre!” Courfeyrac laughs, back hitting the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him with a huff. He’s laughing though, and the sound makes Combeferre’s chest warm.

“Admit it,” he says, eyebrow raised, voice going low. They’re close, the entire length of Combeferre’s body pressed against Courfeyrac’s. It is a moment of roughhousing turned… else.

Courfeyrac swallows, and his bright brown eyes flicker over Combeferre’s face. He’s smirking, a challenge. “Never.” The playfulness of his expression is struck through with something Combeferre can't identify, or won't admit to. Something that warms his belly and spreads tendrils of anticipation through his chest.

Combeferre raises a brow. “Really.” He watches Courfeyrac’s throat bob as he swallows again, tongue darting out to lick his lips. The motion distracts him, drawing all his attention to that one spot: Courfeyrac’s parted lips, shining now in the warm, yellow light of the apartment living room. He feels the muscles in his face slacken, and he forces himself to glance away.

Looking to Courfeyrac’s eyes isn’t much better; pupils blown, lashes fluttering. His chest is expanding enough that it presses back against Combeferre’s, and Combeferre thinks that maybe he ought to take a step back, and give Courfeyrac room to breathe, but Courfeyrac is smiling up at him, mouth a little agape. The corners of his nose are crinkled up the way they do when he teases their friends.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless.

Combeferre grins, biting his lip. Courfeyrac makes a noise at that, eyes glued to the motion, and Combeferre has to stop himself from leaning down and kissing him right there. As it is, he doesn’t stop himself from flickering his gaze down to Courfeyrac’s own lips. He can’t help it, they’re so close together, and all evening Courfeyrac has been pulling his bottom lip under his teeth, or swiping his tongue along, and Combeferre has wanted so much to follow that motion with his own.

He should step away. He should look away, clear his throat, and offer an out. They can go back to arguing, though there had been no heat or stakes. Well. He says no heat, yet Courfeyrac burns always bright in his consciousness, a star — no, a sun — Combeferre cannot turn away from.

Courfeyrac is staring at him, Courfeyrac is looking at his lips, Courfeyrac is smiling at him, and there’s a fire in his eyes daring Combeferre to do something.

He crowds Courfeyrac, using his height to an advantage. For someone only a few inches shorter, at this proximity, Courfeyrac has to tip his head almost totally back, exposing the long, brown expanse of his neck. “Maybe I’ll just have to convince you,” Combeferre says, his voice is rougher to his own ears, and Courfeyrac’s already wide eyes dilated further.

“I’d like to see you try,” Courfeyrac whispers.

Combeferre can feel his breath on his face, that’s how close they are, and it’s barely a nod of his chin before their lips are crashing together. Courfeyrac makes a small, soft noise that has Combeferre’s returning in kind.

Courfeyrac’s arms come up to wrap around Combeferre’s neck, pulling them closer, chests pressed, breathing against one another. His fingers find the hairs at the nape of Combeferre’s neck, and grips them, eliciting another, higher pitched, noise out of Combeferre. He can feel Courfeyrac’s lips curl up into a smile, and he can imagine the wicked glint in his eye, which only makes him press harder into the kiss.

It doesn’t take long before Courfeyrac’s tongue darts out into the shared space of their mouths, first tentative and curious, and, when Combeferre responds with a breathy sigh and an open mouth, licking into his mouth. It’s potential to feel strange is far outweighed by the sensation of being so physically close to Courfeyrac, to hearing his breathing hitch, hear the noises his throat is making.

Combeferre gives as good as he gets, pushing Courfeyrac’s back more firmly against the wall, capturing Courfeyrac’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucking. Courfeyrac whines, loudly, and it is then that Combeferre realizes just what they’re doing. He doesn’t pull away, not yet, too focused on the noise Courfeyrac is making again when he drags his surgeon blunt nails down Courfeyrac’s back.

But he does slow down the ministrations his lips are doing. Combeferre thinks this is going to ruin everything, or make it. Of course, he reasons, this part seems to be going well, but what if—

“You’re thinking too much,” Courfeyrac mumbles against his lips. Combeferre huffs a laugh, and tries to deepen the kiss, bring them back to where they were, but Courfeyrac pulls away, looking up at him. His lips are swollen and wet, but his eyes are focused and firm, and his attention is completely on Combeferre. His arms move from Combeferre’s neck to rest at the joint of his elbows.

Sighing, Combeferre presses his forehead to Courfeyrac’s for a moment before straightening slightly, still stooping the way tall people instinctively do, and says, “Just thinking.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says. A furrow forms in the kiss of his brow. “Is this — are you —“

“Yeah, of course! I just don’t want to—“

“Screw this up?”

“Yes.” The word is a breath of relief.

Courfeyrac hums, rubbing his thumb along Combeferre’s biceps absently and says, “So long as you can admit that _Wars_ is better than _Trek_ , I don’t think we’re going to have a problem.”

Combeferre’s mouth falls open, and he says, “Absolutely not.”

Shrugging, Courfeyrac says, “Well…” And here there’s a little bit of hesitation before he says, peeking up at Combeferre through his lashes, “Well, I guess I’m going to have to cut my losses… I couldn’t possibly be in love with someone who can’t admit the potential storytelling genius of _Star Wars_ …” The teasing tone of Courfeyrac’s voice almost, almost, hides the way he keeps glancing at Combeferre to gauge his reaction, even as he pretends to play hard to get.

It makes Combeferre’s chest hitch, working hard not to overthink the ‘be in love’ part of that sentence, even as he says, “Hmm, well, I’m not sure I could, in good faith, date someone who thinks Jean-Luc Picard is better that Jim Kirk.”

“It’s _Patrick Stewart!_ ” Courfeyrac says indignantly, and Combeferre is laughing, and Courfeyrac glares at him. "This is stupid, can we not and maybe kiss some more.” The hopeful, nervous tone is back, and Combeferre melts.

He leans down, brushing his lips against Courfeyrac’s in a feather light movement that has Courfeyrac complaining when he pulls away again. “I guess I can admit that _Star Wars_ has it’s moments. Only if you can concede to the scientific and thematic significance of _Star Trek_. I guess for you I can do that…” He trails off with a dramatic sigh even Courfeyrac should be proud of.

Courfeyrac grins, and says, “I think you just can’t bare to let a gorgeous guy like me out of your sight.”

Combeferre is humming and nodding along before he realizes, “Did you just quote Han Solo at me.” And then, “Does that make me Princess Leia?”

“That’s General Organa, thank you,” Courfeyrac corrects smugly, “And you can be Leia and I’ll play Han — though, I’ll have you know that, unlike Han, I won’t shoot first.”

His face goes hot and Combeferre’s groans, dropping his forehead to Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “That was terrible.”

“I’ve got more.”

“No.”

“Is that a lightsaber in your pocket or are you—“ Combeferre is still laughing when he cuts Courfeyrac off with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments/critique are greatly appreciated :) 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [girlionceknew](http://girlionceknew.tumblr.com) and [g-taire](http://g-taire.tumblr.com). Come say hi!


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